TWAS THE NIGHT OF THE ALMEIDA's THANKSGIVING DAY
by AlmeidaFluff
Summary: A fluffy, shortnsweet, quickie holiday addition to Tony's Angels. Enjoy!


'**TWAS THE NIGHT OF THE ALMEIDA'S THANKSGIVING DAY:** _**A Tony's Angels Holiday Addition**_

"Go tell your mother I'm dying," Tony groaned in distress, flat on his back and wincing in pain.

"_Daddy's dying, Mommeeeeeeeee!"_ his triplets gleefully squealed at varying ear-screeching levels of pure delight, one racing across the room faster than the next to deliver the good news.

"Well, isn't that just too bad," his deeply caring wife responded from inside the kitchen, intentionally loud enough to ensure that he heard.

This was the thanks he got for gifting her with marital bliss; for showering her daily with undying affection, and unfettered access to the sex machine her life would indubitably be miserable without; for contributing the genes that enabled her to have such beautiful children in the first place, now tightly clustered around her, ghoulishly giggling along with every unconcerned word she uttered.

"Could you please just _do_ something," he moaned in self-pity.

"I could call the animal shelter and have you exterminated!" his beloved barked out a suggestion. "Why must we go through this every Thanksgiving night. Hmm?" she queried above the unbridled laughter of his turncoat triplets.

"Daddy likes _sthuffing!"_ Riley angrily hollered at the top of her tiny voice in the direction of her heartless siblings, all having the time of their lives at the expense of their poor, suffering father. She would have added "Shut up, _thupids!_" if not for the overload of trouble she knew she'd undoubtedly be in if she did.

Good old Riley, his First Lieutenant; his right-hand man, faithfully glued to his side in his hour of need; standing like a sentry beside the couch, upon which he had strewn himself in agony; holding his hand in a stalwart show of unwavering sympathy and solidarity. She was the only one who cared about what would become of him, evidenced not only by the way she so vehemently stuck up for him, but the terribly concerned expression she sported, which he also appreciated immensely.

"What did I specifically remind you, right as we were pulling through those gates, hmm?" the uncaring one demanded to know.

"Go easy on the stuffing," he half-muttered, half-moaned.

"Don't die, Daddy," Riley encouraged him in a warm whisper, her head resting against his as she gently petted his cheek.

"For you, I won't," he generously agreed in a low, pained tone.

"And how many times did you nevertheless reach for that stuffing, hmm?" his unmoved wife continued her torturous interrogation, approaching with a glass of water and that miracle reflux-whatever pill that started with a "Z"; her gaggle of turncoat triplets in tow.

"Don't make me _talk_, Michelle. It hurts," he whined over the predictable four-way argument of which daughter would get to place the pill in his mouth. "Riley," he instantly settled the matter, compelling a row of identical brooding frowns and clenched crisscrossed arms.

Rejecting the glass of water that Michelle hovered above him, he swallowed the pill, Rambo-style, frowning up at her as if to question her very sanity. There wasn't any room for water; not to mention, adding water to a gullet stuffed with stuffing could conceivably result in that bizarre phenomenon he would occasionally read about, wherein victims would suddenly, and quite literally, ignite into a ball of flames, invariably leaving nothing behind for Forensics to process but a charred chair, human ashes, and shoes.

"Would you like some pumpkin pie, _Daaaaddy?_" one of the Turncoats devilishly inquired, followed by another hail of uncontrolled giggles as his eyes sealed shut, overwhelmed by a wave of nausea at the mere thought. Perhaps later, after the pill kicked in, but certainly not at the moment, as his Turncoats well knew.

"Shouldn't you people be in a bathtub," he sternly growled with enough volume to send them speeding toward the staircase in a billowy flurry of ankle-length velvet, lace, ribbons, and strawberry curls.

"And I suppose I'll be giving Riley _her_ bath," Michelle sighed in a not-so-gentle reminder of yet another task she would have to assume, given the condition his stuffing addiction had left him in.

"You stay off those stairs," he glanced up at her and snarled, momentarily stunned for the umpteenth time that day by how incredible she looked in the black, form-fitting dress clinging tightly to her perfectly rounded middle. She was never more beautiful in his eyes than during the nine-month process of manufacturing one of his human masterpieces; nor easier to annoy at the end of so long a day as they'd just spent at his parents'. "Riley's good 'til the morning. A little grunge isn't gonna kill her… Right, baby?" he checked, gaining immediate confirmation from her dark curls bouncing in enthusiastic agreement.

Michelle shook her head and silently surrendered, resigned to the near-impossibility of ever winning a battle whenever those two — her youngest and oldest babies — joined forces with each other.

"Don't let me find you in the middle of the night with your head inside that refrigerator," she clearly warned him, simultaneously wondering why she even bothered. She knew only too well exactly what to expect, based upon years of experience: She would awaken to his empty side of the bed, the sound of hushed whispers over clinking bottles and jars emanating from the floor below, and the distinct, telltale muffled giggles of his sidekick, Riley, whose sharply honed midnight-raid auditory abilities were second only to her own.

She was about to turn and head back to the kitchen to finish unpacking the wealth of Thanksgiving leftovers, which Rosa had diligently loaded into two bulging Gucci shopping bags, when he caught her wrist and pulled her down on top of himself, moaning in pain — though less of it, already, she could tell — as he jockeyed her into a reasonably comfortable curled-up position.

"_I'll_ take care of the stuff in there. Just give me a couple of minutes, all right?" he said, enduring another moment of wincing pain as Riley mountain-climbed herself into the crook of his free arm.

"You're not going anywhere near that kitchen, mister," Michelle wryly chuckled, loving the sensation of his hand now gently swirling against the stretchy fabric covering her extended midsection, knowing he was silently chanting some voodoo ritual to ensure she delivered a boy this time. "I know you too well," she reminded him.

"You only wish you knew half of what you think you know about me," he confidently responded, wrapping up his silent daily chant to ensure that she gave him a boy this time.

"Uh-huh," she grinned. "And who was the one that knew you'd go overboard on the stuffing today… hmm?"

"It's not exactly a state secret, Michelle," he pointed out. "Rosa's been making a whole extra batch of it every year since I was _this_ one's size," he elaborated, tightening his arm around Riley until she screamed "uncle," as trained.

"As if she had any choice in the matter, since no one else at the table would otherwise stand a chance of getting any," the sage one counterpointed in amusement.

"Don't make me withhold sex from you," he mock-threatened her.

"What's _thex_, Daddy?" a tiny voice chimed in from the crook of his arm.

"I not sure I remember," he broodingly growled amid Michelle's subdued snickers, not holding his unborn entirely responsible, though wishing it would make its appearance, already, so that he might return to the fine art of ravaging its mother with shameless abandon.

He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling the sweet scent of Michelle's skin, intermixed with perfume, and listening to the sounds of cascading water and squeals of laughter drifting down the staircase. He wanted to kiss whichever scientist had invented that miracle Z-whatever pill, but settled for his wife's neck, instead, as he plotted a way to con her into taking a rest upstairs so he and his First Lieutenant could hit the pumpkin pie in peace.


End file.
